


Fireside

by itachiscatears



Series: Izuna Week 2021 [2]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bisexual Izuna, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Intercrural Sex, Oral Sex, Tōka's hair kink, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:00:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29320533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itachiscatears/pseuds/itachiscatears
Summary: She is dressed in the increasingly standard jōnin uniform instead of a kimono, headband tied around her forehead and pinning her hair over her eye. Izuna had thought it looked ridiculous when he first noticed it in passing many months ago, but he is feeling generous tonight. In the right light, flames pulsing over an impassive face, she might even be beautiful.Or:Izuna gets harvested at the Harvest Festival.
Relationships: Senju Touka/Uchiha Izuna
Series: Izuna Week 2021 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2151918
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	Fireside

**Author's Note:**

> Breast binding is mentioned in regards to Tōka, just wanted to clarify that she does this for ease of movement and not due to body dysphoria. 
> 
> Written for:
> 
> Izuna Week 2021 - Day 2: Fire | ~~Winter~~

They catch sight of each other over one of the firepits.

She is dressed in the increasingly standard jōnin uniform instead of a kimono, headband tied around her forehead and pinning her hair over her eye. Izuna had thought it looked ridiculous when he first noticed it in passing many months ago, but he is feeling generous tonight. In the right light, flames pulsing over an impassive face, she might even be beautiful.

He has not had more than two cups of alcohol to drink, hardly a drop in the ocean, but his eyes linger for far too long on the subtle thickness of her folded arms. He moves on, disappearing into the fray of the festival.

*

The kids have all left by now; alcohol flows freely, lovers flirt. Izuna plays cards with a group of strangers, keeping an eye on Madara and Hashirama further down the field talking around a low fire. Judging by the blue tinge, it is one of Madara's.

One of his group breaks away, too drunk to focus on the game. The spot is filled only a minute later: she folds herself neatly onto the cool ground, firelight framing her like a god.

It is not a romantic exaggeration. Izuna worries for a moment that he has had more to drink than he thought, but she turns to look at him fully and the flames drape more favourably over her.

She wins the next two rounds. He watches neat hands and she watches him, visible eye shrewd.

*

They fuck in a hollow deep in the forest, his haori a sheet over freshly-turned dirt. It is a useful technique to soften the autumn ground; if earth style suited him, he might have stolen it for himself.

His obi is discarded and his kimono swept off his shoulders, the silk sticking to the moist skin of his back where he is pinned to the ground. They have exchanged only a few words ("Are you drunk?" – "No.") but her mouth is the warmest part of her, hot against his like she has been holding a fireball in her throat.

Dizzily, he realises the smoky heat scorching their lips and tongues is probably _his_.

His hair tie had been lost at some point; neat hands spread his hair around his head and shoulders until it must resemble the rising sun, tinged orange by the low fire next to them. The heat reddens the skin of her shoulders and chest, several shades paler than her sun-brown face and arms. He grasps uselessly at her hips as she rocks tightly over his lap, intense gaze never leaving his face.

"You can fuck me if you want."

He shuts his eyes as his face floods with heat, spreading sweat-damp palms over the bandages on her ribs.

"Have you done this before?" she asks, voice low and faintly amused.

"Not this."

"You can fuck me if you want," she repeats, sitting up on her knees and planting a hand on either side of his head, "but you have to do something for me first."

He agrees unthinkingly. She strips off her trousers and nondescript underwear, leaving them in a tangled heap next to them, and sweeps his hair into a fist before kneeling on either side of his shoulders. His mouth feels suddenly dry.

He almost expects her to yank his head up by the fist in his hair, and probably would not have minded much, but she lays his hair out to her liking again and spreads herself with two fingers. He tilts his head up without instruction and licks hesitantly at her clit.

She guides him with sure fingers. It's not _much_ different to sucking cock, he thinks when they have both relaxed into it and she is rocking against his tongue, though certainly messier. He can't find it in himself to mind, heady with desire and quietly thrilled by her progressively heavy breaths. The hands clutching at her hips slide down, framing her cunt and brushing over dark hair. She makes a disapproving noise before he can go further.

"You haven't washed your hands." She pauses then and leans away from him. "Do _not_ lie to me or you will regret it. Do you have an infection?"

"No," he says breathlessly, a little offended despite himself. "Nothing."

She lets him resume without comment; he is eager to explore, to trace her clit and stroke her inside, but squeezes her thighs instead. She strokes a thumb under his left eye, gently tracing fluttering lashes. He has to fight to keep them shut, plainly aware of how quickly she could blind him. If she dared, she would not live long enough to strike the right.

She reaches back with the same hand and strokes him through his underclothes, bringing him quickly to full hardness. His head is swimming with heat, toes curling into cool dirt. She rises onto her knees and moves down his body, dragging her hands down his shoulders and chest; he shivers in pleasure, calloused fingers catching on sensitive skin.

She sits fully on his lap, trapping his cock between them. She presses a hand to the middle of his chest before he can rise to embrace her.

"Lie back."

His hair is arranged neatly again, and it is almost amusing. Flattering in a way. He is not particularly vain about his hair but perhaps he should be.

His thoughts come to a stuttering halt as she rises onto her knees and grasps his cock, nudging the head between slick lips. She lets it rest against her, looking down at his face. Her lipstick has been worn away, smeared around her mouth and onto one cheek. She doesn’t appear to notice – or care.

He nods quickly, belatedly, and breathes out tightly as his cock is engulfed in slick heat. She pauses only when she is fully seated, turning her head to the side and sighing unsteadily. Pleasure, he hopes, for she immediately draws up and sets a truly punishing pace.

His attempts to touch her are rejected, one balancing hand on his chest and the other frigging her clit, so he gropes at her hips and powerful thighs and tries to be quiet. They are not so far from the remains of the festival that they will not be heard should they forget themselves.

She does not seem to have trouble staying quiet herself until the abrupt end, bowing over him and grinding urgently on his cock. He rocks back eagerly, planting his heels in the cool dirt and using the leverage to thrust up.

He is mindful that she might need a moment or several to recover, but she neither slows nor tells him to stop. She does not speak until several increasingly desperate minutes later, leaning up to press her mouth to his ear between soft pants.

"If you finish in me," she threatens breathlessly, “and you get me pregnant, I won’t be marrying you—you will be marrying _me_."

He is not entirely sure he understands the difference, but he has a feeling there is one. One that he likely does not want to see to fruition, never mind the child part, which he _definitely_ does not want to see to fruition.

"Can I finish in your thighs?"

His voice is reedy and breathless; she does not ask him to elaborate, withdrawing from him and turning on her side facing the fire, thighs parted and head propped up on a palm. He unsticks his kimono from his back and slots in behind her, burying his face in her neck and winding an arm around her ribs. She reaches back and pulls his hair over her shoulder, winding several curling strands around her fingers.

He might have been embarrassed by how quickly he finishes if she had not beaten him to it (and appeared unashamed of this). She tugs gently on his hair and squeezes her thighs together, all but wringing his orgasm out of him; he pants into her neck and palms a breast through flexible binding, heat from the fire prickling sensitised skin.

He feels both grounded and like he might float away at any moment. His eyes grow heavier the longer he spends immobile, body returning slowly to normal. The sweat has hardly dried on their skin when she shifts away, wipes her skin clean with the edge of his haori and reaches over him for her clothes.

The abruptness of it all leaves him spinning. She is fully dressed before he can even tie his hair back; she takes the tie from him without a word and combs the tangles from his hair with quick fingers, gathering it up into a high tail. He touches the ends, bewildered, and silently guides his arms through wide sleeves when she shakes out his kimono and drapes it over him.

There is no kiss goodbye; no words exchanged. She tugs on the end of his ponytail and departs.

He gets slowly to his feet, shakes out his ruined haori and ponders, somewhat perplexed, how to woo Senju Tōka.


End file.
